The Web of Mama Dying
Stitches
People say sorry, I just say thank you.
Yes. Ninety-three and ready to go. Graceful.
As if I had risen from a seat in the dark, turned
and walked up the aisle with the credits rolling behind me.
One guy, some sort of ex-brother-in-law, says how
every Christmas they hang the snowflakes, bells
and angels she crocheted and starched that one year.
I leave doors and windows open, wrap against the chill
while rain spatters porches and walks. A rental,
pleasant, the undetermined last month already paid.
The sun comes out. I throw off the robe.
A spider shining in the backdoor jasmine
mothers her eggclutch in generous silk, her taut world
anchored in wind and guyed to the downspout.
Indoors, I make more calls. The quilt begun when I was born
complete and rumpled now at the foot of my bed.
Wednesday on the hill near Papa's grave; no rain, but damp wind.
The hearse pulled up long and slow beside the shelter.
I had the mortician pop the lid. Her scalp under thin hair
colder than wood, cheek not so cold as the brass handles.
Hearing the story, true as it is, tells you less than
stroking the corpse. Touch your dead if you can.
Quilts
Threads
Copyright 1998 by Greg Keith
